1
Return of the Mack
Henry
NoahSpencer,myinestimableand remarkably efficient personal assistant, has finally lost his damn mind.
Shockingly, I had nothing to do with it.
“I planned this wedding for fourteen months.” His pale, round cheeks have darkened to an alarming shade somewhere between freshly slapped and tomato red, and his British accent has sharpened to a blade. “My brother has wreaked havoc in less than six hours.”
“‘Havoc’ is hyperbolic,” I murmur in my best attempt to soothe. “The villa hasn’t crumbled into the Mediterranean, and I haven’t heard a single explosion.”
Utterlyunsoothed, Spencer sends me a look that edges toward feral. “Yet.”
I blink.
Under normal circumstances, Spencer and I understand each other perfectly. In many ways, we’re alike. He would neverblindside me with a new brand of toothpaste, for instance. And, like me, he prides himself on his self-control and dignity.
I don’t like to see an unflappable man . . . flapping.
“As long as I’ve got a ring on you by the end of the weekend, our wedding isn’t ruined.” Dante, my childhood friend and head of my security team, runs a big hand over his fiancé’s ginger curls.
At least,Danteis acting like himself.
I was honored when Dante asked me to be his best man at his wedding to my PA. Legitimately touched by his request. Now, I think I was touched in the head to say yes.
Spencer turns into the much bigger man’s arms with an abject moan and rests his cheek against Dante’s jaw, the hectic burst of agitated color pressing against the warm brown skin of his future spouse.
My wife shoots me a brief glance before her gaze slips away from mine and back to Dante and Spencer. Late afternoon sun gilds her tan skin and forms a gentle halo of light on her caramel-streaked hair.
As I watch, her shoulders lift and fall on an almost imperceptible sigh.
Standing in the open double doorway, her cherrywood cane in hand and the hem of her red sundress ruffling in the warm breeze, Franki looks healthy. She says she’s “fine.”
But something is wrong. I expected her to be happy after she completed her doctorate. Instead, she’s been distracted. Maybe evensad.
Therefore, I created a plan. Rest, orgasms, and sunshine improve mood. A sleepy village on the Amalfi Coast should’ve been the perfect place for all three.
Operation Relax Franki is on my itinerary.
And, according to that itinerary, Franki and I should be alone right now.Naked.
For the tenth time today, I pull the black plastic fidget spinner from my pocket and give it a swirl. It’s either cave to the urge to stim or leave. Those are my reasonable options.
This is Spencer and Dante’s third “wedding weekend disaster” today. It’s unreasonable.
The first catastrophic event involved Spencer’s brother, Elliot, picking up the glass cake topper to examine it, then fumbling it on the return. It shattered to nothing on the majolica tiles.
My suggestion that a naked cake tastes just as good as one with a decoration on it made Spencer sniffle.
At the disturbing sight, I overcorrected. I didn’t promise another cake topper. I promised an exact replacement.
It turns out that specific tchotchke was handmade in limited editions by a French artist.
Getting a guarantee a matching ten-inch chunk of glass would be here by tomorrow morning required the kind of ass-kissing thatdidn’t involve my lips on my naked wife.
If I spoke French, I’d have called the man myself. Instead, Franki, the very person I’m supposed to be pampering, picked up my slack.
